


Empty Chairs

by oncetherelivedaboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8377360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncetherelivedaboy/pseuds/oncetherelivedaboy
Summary: In which the American Revolution failed and Lafayette is one of the few survivors.-anon request-





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelMalfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelMalfoy/gifts).



The revolution failed years ago, the last of the traitors had been hung long ago. Gilbert no longer went by the name he’d been formally known as and his title as Marquis had been all but stripped, it meant nothing any longer.  
He’d escaped, by some cruel twist he’d been the one to escape. He hadn’t wanted to, had already accepted his fate. John and Alex had dragged him out of camp for a last drink before the soldiers came in, the war was already lost, the white flag raised and spirits were low. John had bought them drinks, the fact that John had been the one to collect them should have been the first indicator that something was up and before he’d known it the world was spinning and the tavern floor came up to meet him. He’d woken up in the cargo hold of a ship already headed back to France. He’d rather have died by their side than to be the one to escape. Those feelings changed when he’d arrived home, changed from anger at their sakes to thankfulness when he’d seen Adrienne and the children. He did not regret naming Georges as such, but the name felt heavy on his tongue every time he spoke it.  
He was back now, going by a different name to honor his friends. Walking down the city streets that were filled with red coat soldiers, their rifles on their soldiers and their eyes flitting from person to person, no one could escape their gaze and Gilbert ducked his head to avoid anyone recognizing him.  
His feet led him to the bar they used to frequent, Laurens singing too loudly and Alexander going along with, they were terrible at conspicuousness, any trained eye could see they were more than friends simply by the fact that watching them talk excitedly together almost felt scandalous, their words would be hushed at times and one would burst into laughter. It was no surprise that they fought side by side as if in a dance they had long since mastered. The three of them had been inseparable, and with each other they’d all three managed to grasp some sort of adolescence spirit, something so hard to find in this world that forced children to grow up far too quickly, he’d seen it in his own children, had experienced it himself.  
Inside he can practically hear the boisterous crowd of patriots in the bar, could practically see Alex standing on the table, balance wobbling but so sure of his words, and John pounding his cup on the table. Now though, the red soldiers stand guard. Recognition crosses the face of the bartender and he nods at Gilbert, doesn’t offer more than a sad smile, he remembers the days when his bar was bustling with young men who wanted nothing more than to make their marks in history and stand up against tyranny. They had, and they’d paid with their lives. He buys a drink, leaving a bit extra, pulling the knit cap a bit farther down, his hair down and sticking out of the bottom of it.  
He leaves shortly after, wanders the city with his head down. He stops in front of a shop, what used to be a tailor’s shop, a good man, who’d risked his life for the cause. He’d ended up like the rest of them, hanging from the gallows with the other spies. None had escaped, not a single soldier, Britain had learned its lesson with the rebels and refused to let the thoughts of rebellion brew again, installed soldiers at nearly every corner, in every home, and killed anyone who dared question the crown. The only ones spared were the women, and children. He’d go to see Eliza before he left. The sign was different, candle makers had taken up shop there, seemingly unaware of the past the store held. He would never know that only a few years before he’d slept under the roof with his closest friends, who were now, long since dead.  
He spent the night at an inn, and sent a letter to Alexander’s widow, Eliza. He’d brought a sum of money for her, a gift from him and Adrienne even in their own hard times. She hadn’t been reimbursed by the continental congress in the case of his death because the congress no longer existed, every member having either been killed or have fled.  
He passed the square where the rebels had been hung. It had all gone to shit when Washington had been thrown from his horse as he led the charge into battle and a shot ripped through his chest, he’d been dead before he’d hit the ground, leaving a military power vacuum. The real one to blame for their lost wasn’t even Britain, it was the infighting, and when they’d reached Yorktown the redcoats had spilled more patriot blood than ever before. The surrender meant nothing. All found to be in the union were to be executed. He’d heard the stories even in France. Alexander’s hanging had been one that had started the song, Laurens the one to start the cry, to grab his best friend’s hand and raise it to the air next to him, tears in both their eyes. “Raise a glass to freedom.” The words rang out in the square. “Something they can never take away, no matter what they tell you!” He could practically hear the words echoing around him. “Raise a glass to all of us! Tomorrow there’ll be more of us, telling the story of….” Every story had said the words had been cut off as lever had been pulled and the song had come to an abrupt end. The quiet didn’t stop the other men from singing the first lines over and over. Their defiance held up until the last man, the words still echoing even after the sound of the rope going taut and the snap of the bone. Gilbert knew the song well, the song Laurens had begun those first nights they’d met, knew the melody and the final words even with last minute changes he’d made, and whispered the last few words as he passed the gallows.  
The traitors’ graves were not far out of the city, not single marked grave, just long trenches that had been covered over. There were no names, just a single sign in front of each row simply reading: “Traitors of the crown.” Gilbert took a handful of soil, dropping it into a canvas sack. He’d never be buried under soil of the free, but he could still be buried under the same soil as his friends, the men he’d admired more than anything. Washington was in his own unmarked grave, far from here without a single way to mark his body. They hadn’t wanted the British to put his body on display. He’d been there but he wouldn’t be able to find the grave now.  
Eliza’s letter arrived a few days later. She was looking forward to seeing him, and had told him she was staying with her father. He left that evening, taking a horse and riding through the night until he’d arrived. It was late afternoon when he arrived, and she’d practically raced down the stairs to meet him. It was immodest and too anyone it would unacceptable but he’d just hugged her back. Down the stairs toddles a small boy, no more than three or four, with thick dark curls that fell onto his shoulders and freckles that covered his cheeks. When Eliza had let go he’d scooped the boy up in his arms, and he’d squealed in delight.  
“Hi! My name is Philip! Who are you?”  
“You may call my Gilbert.”  
“Marquis, you may call him Marquis.” Eliza corrects and Gilbert just tuts at her.  
“Nonsense, the title is nothing but a title, call me Gilbert.” Eliza smiles and Gilbert sets him down.  
“Philip, why don’t you go work on your piano?” He huffs but goes easily, and Gilbert pulls the money from his inside pocket.  
“A gift, from Adrienne and I. I wish we could do more.”  
“Marquis, I can’t…”  
“Take it Eliza, it’s the least I can do after everything.” She nods and reluctantly takes the money.  
Eliza makes him up a room and he stays for a few weeks, helps with some Philip’s tutoring before taking a ship back to France. Back home, back to Adrienne, back to his own failed revolution, because without the success of America, France didn’t even want to try.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was fun and somewhat heartbreaking to write.  
> Oncetherelivedaboy.tumblr.com if you have any of your own requests.


End file.
